


Wave Me Home

by Kathar



Series: Double Header [1]
Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint is easily distracted, First Time, Fluff, Get Together, M/M, Phil is always plotting something, gratuitous use of Chicago, gratuitous use of baseball-related innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:46:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s Chicago, it’s a summer weekend, and two SHIELD agents find themselves with some post-mission downtime.</p><p>It’s practically tailor-made for catching a ballgame at Wrigley Field and possibly doing something else involving bats and balls later on. If you know what Phil means. And I think you do.</p><p>Clint is missing all Phil’s signs to head for home-- but the game's not over till the last man is out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wave Me Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [faeleverte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte/gifts).



> This is the prequel to [Fish Glue and String](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1131696), a Christmas present for my braintwin [Faeleverte](http://archiveofourown.org/users/faeleverte). Scenes from this story are referred to in that story. Fae, if not this year, maybe next year. Always.
> 
> Since it didn’t get to Fae in time for Christmas, I presented it in time for that other most important holiday: Pitchers and Catchers report to Spring Training (for the Cubs). It seemed appropriate for a slash fic.
> 
> My eternal thanks to Beta J for making sure I was actually saying what I intended and to [Selana](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Selana/pseuds/Selana) for ensuring this is readable-- even if you have no baseball knowledge whatsoever.

“Hey sir? Sir?”

“Barton?”

Clint shifted in his perch and felt the tree branch shift beneath him. No matter what position he chose, something was gonna be squashed-- mostly his balls. He sighed loudly over comms.

“Can you shift just a bit to the right, sir?”

“Of course.” 

Through the break in the trees, he saw Agent Phil Coulson fold up his newspaper, straighten, move further along the path as if he’d become inconvenienced by the section of railing he was leaning against, and shake out his newspaper again.

“That better, Barton?”

Clint curled himself more firmly against the oak supporting him and pulled out the pocket scope he was wearing on a lanyard around his neck.

Two trees over, several interchangeable small brown birds (something migratory, he guessed, given that he was in a migratory bird sanctuary) fought over territory, babbling angrily at each other.

A squirrel ran out onto the branch above him, stopped abruptly with a look of pure rodent shock on its face, and chattered at him.

“Scram,” Clint growled at it, and it ran. “Not you, sir,” he added after a moment.

“Barton, if the local wildlife is disturbing you--”

“No, no.” The breeze ruffled his hair, cooler up here than on the grassy lawn that fronted on the boardwalk and Lake Michigan. Days like this, sparkling blue and clear with the sweet scent of garbage and city and exhaust in the background, he didn’t get a lot of.

“How’s the view?” Coulson asked again, turning a page of the newspaper and folding it behind itself.

Clint adjusted the scope. Coulson's lips came into focus, dry and warm, pursed just a hair with whatever he was reading (or thinking). He wet the bottom one absently.

“Just fine, sir," Clint said. And, after a long pause, “Geez, Percival’s still playing? What do they do, re-attach his arm with fish glue just before they warm him up?”

Coulson’s head popped up, and Clint could see a minute frown, like he’d caught sight of a wasp and was trying to decide whether it was worth swatting.

“Agent Barton, please tell me you didn’t have me move solely so you could catch the box scores.”

“Not solely, sir. I might have wanted a better angle to admire your excellent taste in suits, as well.”

And those lips, and other things. There was something glowing and cinematic in the way the afternoon sun warmed Coulson's dark hair and softened the planes of his face. It was so damn rare that Clint could feel safe _looking_ like this, that it made him restless. Made him want to push. Through the scope, he could see the freckles scattered across Coulson's forehead. He had a good angle, too, on those broad shoulders and huge hands-- though the newspaper cut off the most _interesting_ portions of the view.

“Barton! Focus!” There was a slight flush at the edge of his collar-- from frustration, probably, but it still felt like a reward to Clint.

“I’m trying! It’s been hours, sir, and this is not the most comfortable I’ve been ever and you wouldn’t let us set up down by the archery range--”

“-- I wonder why _that_ was, Barton. Clearly I can count on you not to get distracted easily.” His voice over the comms was brusque, a little slurred since he was only barely moving his lips, but Clint was nearly sure he heard the note of amusement under it.

“Hey, there’s no-one on the path within a two-minute walk of you, certainly no-one fitting your contact’s description, and I’ve already alerted Agent Hollis that someone just towed a truck I’m sure was legally parked over there in the lot-- and it’s definitely not ours. I _have_ situational awareness, sir. I’m just using it to catch up on the-- fucking caught stealing, Fontenot? What was he even doing in the game-- sir, can you move your thumb? He was pinch-hitting, wasn’t he?”

“I’m not indulging this, Barton,” Coulson said, and moved his thumb. “And thirty-seven is not exactly decrepit and falling apart at the seams.” 

Fontenot had totally been pinch-hitting, the jackass. And what did thirty-seven have to do with anyth-- oh. Right. Percival. 

“It is for right-handed relief, sir. And coming off an injury to boot. Shocked anyone gave him a chance. Cubbies that bad this year?”

“The Cubs are _fine_ this year, Agent Barton, and see how you feel about that when _you’re_ thirty-seven.”

“If I make it to thirty-seven alive sir, it’ll be a fucking miracle. Damnit, squirrel, stoppit!” The squirrel had returned to the branch above Barton and was flinging things at him.

Actual fucking acorns.

“Seriously, Barton!”

“Look, it’s hard to focus when someone’s flinging their nuts at you.”

The silence after that was long enough for Clint to dispatch the squirrel with a well-placed return nut, then finish reading the NL standings. Cubbies were maybe doing all right after all. Coulson was extremely still below him, frowning down at the paper. Finally, he said: 

“Check again with Hollis and find out where the hell my contact is,” turned a page, cleared his throat, and then muttered “I’ll make damn sure you get to thirty-seven, Barton.”

“Course you will, sir, if only so you can tell me you told me so.” Clint smiled as he saw Coulson start. “I’ll check with Hollis now."

Coulson glanced up at him--well, at the stand of trees--for a long moment, then shook his head and settled back into his paper. 

____

The contact, as it turned out, had been towed out of the Lincoln Park parking lot in the trunk of his own car. That had been the only thing in the least out of the ordinary in the ensuing pursuit-and-rescue standard variation 3 (urban, warehouse district, with a side of sudden crowd scene). Clint ached in all his joints. He felt half-squirrel himself, at least that hairy, and he was pretty certain he already needed fish glue.

After Coulson had finished taking care of the now-freed contact, he’d insisted they visit the Chicago hub to debrief (why the _fuck_ could they not have done that in the morning?), then they’d grabbed burgers in a drive-thru. Clint had demolished his in two bites, before they’d gotten out of the parking lot. Coulson had taken a demure three bites to finish his-- but he was somewhat hampered by texting constantly as he ate, thumbs moving rapidly over his Blackberry.

It was well past midnight when they got back to their suite at the hotel, of which the only advantage was a nice distant view of Navy Pier (and the filtration plant). And, well, the suite part, which meant that Coulson couldn’t really _say_ much when Clint collapsed into a heap on the floor next to the coffee table as soon as they entered, scattering equipment, because he wasn't blocking anything vital. The case containing his bow and the one with his quiver bracketed him like wings. 

Coulson stepped over him without making a sound, peeling off his jacket. Clint’s eyes followed his ass as it moved on into the bedroom doorway. He covered his involuntary moan by making an attempt to finish the conversation he'd interrupted by his collapse:

“No seriously, sir, when do we fly out? I need to know how soon I have to be able to peel myself off the floor.”

Coulson glanced down at Clint where he lay, attempting to become one with the tan plaid carpeting, and snorted.

“No seriously, Barton,” Coulson mimicked him dryly, “not until Monday, like I said. Which gives you at least thirty-six hours before you have to extricate yourself from the floor. I, on the other hand, am going to go take a shower, contact HQ to make sure the local branch passed along the data sets, then I am going to sleep for at _least_ six hours. Do you think you can manage not to get yourself into trouble while I do that?”

“I’d have to move before I could get myself into trouble, Coulson.” Clint debated with himself, while Coulson leaned in the doorway and watched him, that thoughtful near-frown on his face that Clint could have pictured with his eyes closed. Clearly there was something Clint was supposed to be doing that he wasn’t, but then again, there was something Coulson wanted to do that he wasn’t telling Clint.

Well then, they were at an impasse.

A very tired impasse, since Coulson was slumping further and further into the doorjam as he waited, and Clint’s eyes were failing to co-oper…

 

 

 

...ate. 

Uh?

“Come on,” Coulson said, and his hands were warm underneath Clint’s arms. “You’re falling asleep down there.” He heaved, and Clint got his legs underneath himself long enough to participate in his own hoisting. Coulson held him until his legs stopped being jelly then drew back, brushing a speck of something off his tac vest.

“Mn?” Clint asked him, looking down at those long fingers as they brushed.

“And to answer your question, Barton, I thought we could use a day or two off. We’ve been going pretty much constantly for a couple months. Unless you have an objection to an actual vacation day?”

“Huh?” Coulson’s fingers had trailed down his tac vest, tugging here and there, smoothing creases and straightening seams. He was watching them closely.

“Also,” he said, almost as an afterthought, “it’s a day game tomorrow at Wrigley. 1:10 start.”

“Is it?” It was amazing how agile those fingers were, how quick and light and deliriou… debauc… dextros... fuck. Words. Words sucked.

“A friend got me a pair of tickets.” 

“Oh?”

“First base line. Lower deck.” Coulson stepped back and looked Clint over with a long sigh, evidently deciding there was nothing more those distressingly talented hands could do to bring him up to snuff. Now would be a great time for his brain to come back online, Clint thought.

 

 

 

“Clint?” 

Clint brought his head up with a snap. Oh, had he fallen asleep standing up again?

“Not gonna hang out with the bleacher bums, Coulson? Thought that was your favorite thing to do as a kid.” Coulson’s smile was tight and tired. Instead of answering, he started guiding Clint towards the beds. Clint pulled away from him when they were between the two, and tipped over onto his own.

Coulson started to work on his boots.

“Thanks,” Clint mumbled. Coulson grunted, low under his breath.

 

 

 

 

“So,” he said when he woke up to find his boots on the floor and Coulson watching him from a sitting position on the other bed, “that means no actual work tomorrow?” 

Coulson nodded. 

“Good,” Clint said as he struggled upright and tugged off his tac vest. “I’m just gonna sleep till noon, then, maybe head down to that archery range while you’re at the game.”

The pillow, or the rapid descent from drowsiness into full-out sleep, muffled whatever response Coulson might have had to that.

____

Sleeping until noon was clearly not something Clint was destined to do in this lifetime, because god _damn_ that early morning sun across the lake and the skyscrapers-- no blackout curtains existed that could filter all of that out. 

Coulson was still asleep on the bed across from him, tucked in on himself, his back bare nearly to the waist beneath the stiff white sheets and moss blanket. As Clint watched, he shifted, snuggling more deeply into his pillow with a long sigh.

There went the last hope of more sleep in the foreseeable future. An early morning run along the lakeshore was clearly indicated, and engaged in.

Half of Chicago seemed to have had the same idea. Nodding at the serious young professionals in their jogging shorts and yoga pants, the weekend exercisers in sweats and huge t-shirts, the elderly marathoner in her spandex, Clint started to feel like life was perhaps worth living again. 

As he was passing the harbor, idly counting the boats bobbing happily in their slips, he thought of coffee, and Coulson. 

On any given Saturday back in New York, if they were working, Coulson brought in a thermos of some single-source small-farmer batch-roasted coffee of the kind that Clint had come to realize was the guy’s secret vice. Clint couldn’t be bothered to make it for himself, but he _could_ , as it turned out, be bothered to side-track to a coffee plantation on his way back from the Honduras to pick up a couple dozen pounds. 

So it wasn’t a Saturday and they weren’t in New York, and maybe they weren’t supposed to be working. Clint could apparently _still_ be bothered to go out of his way for Coulson’s caffeine, and he crossed back over Lakeshore Drive and into the city.

The other bed was empty and the shower was running when he returned with two cups of Intelligentsia in his hands and a bag of pastries gripped between his teeth.

Coulson emerged from the shower just as Clint was leaving again, pajamas on and towelling his hair.

“‘Morning,” he said muzzily, and looked Clint up and down. “Where are you off to?” 

Clint had a coffee in one hand, bow case in the other, and was slowly consuming the danish he’d half-crammed into his mouth. (Eating no-handed was one of several mouth-related skills he’d perfected, as he’d told Coulson one time in medical. The nurse taping up his burnt and blistered fingers had stumbled out of the room, but her sniggering had filtered through the door. Coulson had merely promised to add that to his file.) He pointed his chin towards the windows, and Coulson wandered over to it, towel forgotten on his shoulders.

He’d left the other coffee and the rest of the pastries on the table near the open windows, along with a note that read: _Gonna get archery in now and nap later. Don’t you dare do work boss. If I don’t see you before you leave, have a good time at the game._ Coulson’s back was to him as he read the note, outlined in the morning sunlight so that the trim lines of his waist showed through the thin t-shirt.

It was with difficulty that Clint waited until Coulson’d read the note and turned back to him, before raising an _all right?_ eyebrow. He mumbled the danish further into his mouth as he did.

“Okay,” Coulson said, shrugging a little. “If that’s what you want.” It sounded tentative, so Clint nodded his affirmation, and tried to smile around his danish. No need to make the guy feel awkward for having non-Clint-related vacation plans. They weren’t exactly off-work friends or anything. (Although “off-work” was a nearly foreign concept anyway.)

Coulson was still holding the note in one hand as he left. As he’d written it, Clint had been wondering just who the “friend” was Coulson was taking to the game. Not a SHIELD person, probably-- unless it was Hollis, he had that chiseled blond model face that Clint kind of wanted to punch. Coulson’d grown up in Chicago, though, tearing around the right field bleachers on summer afternoons with an ever-changing cast of cousins and others, if his occasional stories were to be believed. The friend could easily be someone from that past. A girlfriend (or guyfriend--Clint had seen both come and go) or a cousin (or--god forbid--both)? Someone he’d met on an op? 

Someone he was gonna go and squish into those too-small old seats at Wrigley with, anyway, and watch a ballgame.

Clint had never gotten to see Coulson at a baseball game; he wondered if he was the kind of guy who marked every play down on a scorecard. He seemed like that kind of guy; dropping out of the cheering early to fill in the little boxes for the bases and meticulously pencilling in 6-4-3 with satisfied smile on his face. He probably even had a file back at the office with the scorecards from notable games.

Or maybe Coulson was the kind of guy who swore a blue streak at the ballpark--like he had in that ditch outside the refinery in Nouadhibou when the extraction team had gotten itself captured. The kind of guy you couldn’t sit in the family section with for fear you’d have to gag him.

Oh, Clint would have loved to gag Agent Phil Coulson. The girl-guy-cousin-friend had _better_ not be getting to do that.

The archery range was tiny, its low green park-standard building the merest handwave towards a clubhouse. Only one other person was there on a Sunday morning: a gangly shock-haired teenager who stopped shooting and just _stared_ at Clint after a while. Clint was man enough to admit to showing off a bit, before wandering over to check the kid’s stance and offer a few polite pointers.

It beat thinking any more about Coulson, because there wasn’t much he could do about the lust that had been slowly rising all morning. It was an old companion by this point. He’d been throttling it successfully for years because, well, _nope, not my handler, not the guy in the pristine Dolce, the guy who held my guts in on the evac chopper, pretty sure I’m not_ that _self-destructive anymore._

(Okay, throttling successfully except that one time outside of Quito where Clint had been within about two seconds of smashing their faces together when Natasha had broken down the door and unchained them. Or that other time outside of Zurich when it really _had_ been only the imminent threat of drowning that had kept Clint from throwing himself at Coulson when he turned up, despite him being covered in bees. And maybe he hadn’t been doing so well at not reacting since the mines a month back. But _fuck_ if he was gonna think about that right now, because that way lay inappropriate responses to have when a teenager was around.)

The kid got picked up in a battered old Ford station wagon an hour or so later, and it quickly became apparent to Clint that his body had not entirely recovered from the rooftop chase the day before. (Worth it, though. Oh, so worth it. Nothing like sailing over a back alley about three stories above an asshole waiting for a deal to go down.) Even if he’d been feeling less like a minute steak, the sky was starting to cloud over in a serious way. He packed up and headed back.

Coulson was on the phone when Clint got in, and Clint gave his shoulder a quick squeeze and growled:

“You’re not supposed to be fucking working” in his other ear as he passed through into the bathroom. Coulson reached after him, eyes big with an implied question. Clint pretended he hadn’t seen the look, just waggled his fingers as he disappeared.

He stood under the hot water for a very long time, until he began to feel less like one big uncomfortably aroused muscle cramp and more like a human being.

____

“So I’m heading out,” Coulson said as he turned around. Clint’s legs, still shaky from the shower, turned to lead, locking him in place. He dropped his towel onto a chair, put his hands on his pajama-clad hips, and stared.

“No, you’re not.” 

That got a wry little head-tilt and smile from Coulson, the _clearly I heard you wrong_ one. Clint wasn’t surprised; he was giving himself the same look. What did you just do, self?

In his defense, he’d been ambushed. When he’d gone into the shower Coulson was still in his pajamas, typing up mission reports on his laptop while scrunching his phone between ear and shoulder, coffee at hand and reading glasses perched on his delectable nose, magnifying those big eyes when he’d looked at Clint.

Which was bad enough, but this was hell. Sheer hell.

“Barton, the game starts in an hour, I’m heading out--”

“Not dressed like that, you’re not.”

He very nearly slapped a hand over his mouth. 

“Dressed like what?”

As if he didn’t fucking know.

“You _know_ what-- goddamnit, Phil. Like _that_. Don’t even fucking kid me with that.”

“Did you just call me ‘Phil’?”

Had he? He had. Shit. Had he no sense of self-preservation?

“So what if I did? We’re not on assignment, we’re not even on duty. You’re going to a baseball game in a fucking _blazer_ , or so you say, and I’m gonna call you Phil unless you come over here and make me stop.”

Yep-- nope. No sense of self-preservation today.

“I should,” Phil narrowed his eyes. “And it’s not like I’m wearing a suit to a baseball game, Barton. It’s just a jacket. And jeans.”

“Yes. Right. Just a fucking sport coat and jeans and your collar’s open. And you’re going to sidle in among all the families in their oversized MLB jerseys and gooey nachos, and the drunk frat boys in their fucking sideways baseball caps, and drink an overpriced beer while lounging around in _oh my fucking god you’re wearing loafers are you for real_?”

“Clint, this is… not something I expected from you. Should we be considering a new career path for you? Something in the quartermaster’s office?”

“Fuck you, that’s not the point.”

“We couldn’t take you off covert ops entirely, but I wouldn’t mind seconding you. They need someone to convince them that thigh pouches as large as your actual thigh are not now, and will never be, acceptable field gear.”

It was an out, he was being given an out, he should just take the fucking out.

“Look, thigh pouches do nothing for me but get in the way. You in that-- holy fuck your chest hair.” Clint knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he should be shutting his mouth about now, from the way Phil’s-- Coulson’s, it was definitely about to be _Coulson_ again, if not all the way back to _sir_ \-- eyes were widening.

He waited with bated breath as Coulson blinked, tilted his head, then rolled his shoulders and visibly tried to shake something loose in his brain. 

And then the fucker stuck his hands in the pockets of his jeans and, looking just slightly to the left of Clint, perhaps out the window behind him, he said:

“Go get changed.”

“What?”

“I’ve got two tickets; I told you last night. Go get changed and come with.”

“Wait, did your friend cancel or something?”

Coulson shifted impatiently.

“Is there going to be a problem with this, Clint? You’re the one who wanted to see me in the middle of a crowd of drunken hecklers, after all.”

Of the thousand million things that could have come out of Clint’s mouth at that moment, from _that’s not what I meant_ to _is this a date?_ to _wait, no, back up-- are you just going to ignore the part where I implied I wanted to hump your leg_ , what he actually said was:

“Depends. Who’s starting?”

Oh, look, his brain had a self-preservation instinct after all. Or maybe not, given the look on Phil’s (oh hell yeah he was back to that) face. 

“Lilly for the Cubs; Pineiro for the Cards. Should I look up the lineup online, too? Wrigley Field on a sunny afternoon’s not good enough for you, you need a Cy Young as well?”

“Not really sunny, you might have noticed,” Clint said, jerking a thumb towards the gathering gloom outside the window and looking Phil up and down. His hands were still in his pockets, and he’d gone kind of hip-splayed with it, easing down into that balls-forward stance he’d used undercover on an op up around Eveleth. The op was still fresh in his memory; they’d found an 0-8-4 at the bottom of an abandoned open-pit mine. The entire two fucking weeks, Phil had wandered around with his tight faded jeans and that scuffed tan blazer and his unbuttoned button-downs, slouching like a man who’d lived half his life wrestling bears and had finally gotten cleaned up a bit to impress the Suits up from the Cities.

Clint had spent those two weeks trailing him with drool at the corner of his mouth.(Phil had kept him at a distance the entire time, for which Clint had been profoundly grateful-- there was no way he could have hidden it otherwise.) It was unexpected as _fuck_ , but something about put-together-gentleman Coulson in these-are-my-dress-jeans combined with a significant edge of danger had spiked the latent lust in him and bypassed all his controls.

Looking at Phil’s eyes on him now, the little sway forward that he got when he was trying to haggle someone down on a limited-edition Captain America bobblehead and didn’t want to appear a quarter as eager as he actually was, Clint felt the world begin to shift under his feet.

Oh.

“All right, I’m in, you can buy me a hot dog. So. I’m pinch-hitting for your _friend_ , huh?” he drawled, and turned to go into the bedroom.

“I’m not sure why you’re using that inflection, but if you were, would there be a problem with that?”

“No, no,” Clint closed the door behind him, and threw open his duffel bag. No problems at all. So Phil’d noticed, up in the mines. All right, that was all right. Clint noticed things too. Just maybe took him a bit. He dug to the bottom of the bag. “No shame in switching out players before a big at-bat.”

“Is that right?” Phil’s voice drifted in from the suite’s living room.

“‘Sright. What you need is a scrappy utility infielder type to come in and make the pitcher work for it.” Aha, there they were! Clint shucked off his shirt and pants and tossed them in a corner. He pulled on the jeans without bothering to grab boxers first and carefully adjusted himself. He was gonna need a little room.

“What do you plan to do? Draw a walk?”

“Bunt, I’ve always been fond of bunts. Takes real precision. Make the fielders go after it.” Clint smiled as he placed his boots on the bed, dusting them off lovingly, and straightened his sock before stopping to ease one onto his foot.

“You’re good with bat placement, is what you’re saying?” Phil’s voice was still light enough, but come _on_ , there was nothing subtle in what they were doing, right?

“Balls too, yeah,” Clint replied, adjusting his belt buckle and the leather thong at his neck, and running a hand through his hair.

It’d have to do.

“I believe it. You’re being too modest, Clint. God meant you for a control pitcher.”

Was that supposed to be a double entendre?

Because it felt awful genuine all of a sudden. Especially for a guy who still waxed poetic about seeing Fergie Jenkins play at home. 

Clint poked his head back through the door.

“Middle relief maybe, Phil,” he said, and oh god please say he wasn’t breaking whatever the fuck was building between them by being serious at the wrong time. “I’ve got a fastball and a few tricks but I’m not your ace.”

“You’re a goddamn closer, Clint, lights out,” Phil smiled back at him, then his face wiped blank as Clint stepped out of the room.

Aha. Well he’d gotten _that_ pitch right in the strike zone, anyway.

(Oh, god, could he stop thinking in baseball innuendo already?)

“You okay, Phil?” Clint smiled, leaning against the doorframe and flinging his leather cycle jacket over his shoulder with a casual flick of the wrist.

“-- Clint?”

“Yeah?”

“Um.”

Oh _hell_ yeah. Fergie Jenkins could be in the fucking _room_ right now, offering to sign Phil’s naked chest and he didn’t think Phil would notice. He hadn’t moved a muscle since Clint had come out, but his eyes were running laps up and down Clint’s body. They seemed to linger at throat, belt, boots-- which was exactly the goddamn point.

“This okay for the game?” Clint said. 

“The, ah, the jacket might get impractical, Clint. It’s pretty hot-- warm-- already.”

“Gonna need it if it starts raining, Phil. Wouldn’t want my t-shirt soaked. It gets a bit… risqué.”

“Well. We, ah, we wouldn’t want that…” except that Phil looked like that was _exactly_ what he would have wanted. Clint shifted until his hip popped in that familiar little way, just this side of actually uncomfortable, and Phil swallowed hard.

“In fact,” Phil continued after a moment, pulling his hands out of his pockets and wiping them on his jacket, “given the threat of rain, it’s probably better if you go change entirely.” He started forward slowly, nearly stalking, those unfair eyes of his focused and his entire body settling into mission mode.

This was either going to go very well, or very badly, in just a moment.

“You don’t like this, then?” 

Phil came to a halt right in front of Clint, silent for a long moment as he held Clint’s gaze. Clint found himself unable to pull off sultry all of a sudden, but did his best to pull off determined. He was so focused on staring into Phil’s eyes that he nearly missed when the smile started to curve his lips.

“On the contrary,” Phil rasped. “I’m very fond of it. Especially the cowboy boots-- although I’m a bit confused about why you brought them on this op in the first place.”

“We left so fast all I could do was shove new stuff into my go-bag, and I hadn’t unpacked the shit from Eveleth,” Clint said. 

“I thought I recognized the jeans. And belt.” Phil’s eyes dropped to the buckle, a heavy thing way out of line with Clint’s usual taste but that had been right for his cover. 

It was apparently just right for Phil, too.

“I thought you might.” He was fucking _purring_ , Clint realized with a shock, and then with another shock realized he didn’t care. He felt like he was getting a tummy rub from Phil’s goddamn gaze, and not _just_ a tummy rub. “So, I should go change, then?” 

“Mmmm,” Phil said, and then… did nothing.

Just fucking stood there.

Watching.

Well for _fuck’s sake_ , what was Clint supposed to do? Wave him home?

What Clint did was turn on that nice elevated boot heel, throw a grin over his shoulder, and saunter back into the bedroom.

“All right then,” he said as he went. “I’ll go get undressed.”

He’d barely turned his head forward when the door clicked closed behind him and he felt Phil’s hand curve over his where it held the motorcycle jacket.

“I’d better help. You’ll never be ready in time otherwise.” And he pulled the jacket out of Clint’s fingers and dropped it on the floor.

Clint’s protest died in his throat as those hands nearly immediately found their way to his belt, tugged his t-shirt free, and stripped him of it. 

“I--” was all he had time for before Phil wrapped his arms around Clint’s waist and pulled Clint back against his chest, bare flesh against the warmth of cotton and linen. The breath was only barely back in his lungs when Phil started to slide his palms slowly up Clint’s abs, fingers splayed, leaving trails of heat and a thousand goosebumps where his callouses scoured. 

“ _Phil_ \--” got cut off by Phil’s answering _hmmm_ huffing in his ear, low and self-satisfied. Clint stared down at those hands until they reached his chest, where one curled around his breast and the other slithered upwards towards Clint’s cheek, pressing it backwards until Phil could lean over his shoulder and kiss him. 

The angle was awkward but Phil’s lips were firm and his tongue was hot and his eyes, so close to Clint’s, were heavy-lidded and long-lashed; his fingers had found Clint’s nipple and were brushing. All that would have been enough to hold him in place, but the ache in Clint’s neck was nothing at all to the growing hardness below his belt, and he couldn’t have moved if the entire hotel was burning down.

____

Time happened in sharp bursts for a while after that, as Clint swam briefly to alertness in the middle of a haze of exhaustion, arousal, and sheer surprise.

Phil let himself be stripped of jacket and shirt while laughing at Clint with his eyes, especially when Clint just stared in wonder at his chest for a long moment, before running shaking hands through the chest hair. The laughter stopped fast when Clint closed his fingers and tugged Phil to him.

They were on the bed, a bed, someone’s bed, boots kicked off, bare arms and chests and jeans-clad legs twined around each other, moving slowly. Their tongues and hands explored anywhere they could reach, hot and sure against bare skin. Lower down, the two layers of denim were somehow making the rocking gyrations of their hips worse, tamping down the sensation of each brush so that the aching hardness ratcheted higher and higher.

Clint’s world slowly narrowed to Phil pressing down over him from head to toe, every inch of him being turned on, woken up, static electricity rubbing between them like a growing thunderstorm, the air thickening and his vision going. 

At some point their jeans disappeared and Phil was reaching down, fingers prying open enough space to get between them as Clint slipped his hand over the warm, unexpectedly fuzzy curve of Phil’s ass. He let one finger brush against Phil’s rim. Phil bucked up with a hiss, planting his hands on either side of Clint to steady himself.

“Sorry?” Clint said, struggling to gather his thoughts.

“‘Sokay,” Phil said. His eyes had fluttered shut. “Just pretty sensitive back there.”

“We’ve got nothing but time.” Clint tried for lazy and seductive, hoped he made it. Phil’s chuckle above him turned breathy, and he ducked to nip Clint on the lips once, grinding down as he did. Then a second time when Clint convulsed beneath him. “Fuck you!” Clint finished.

“Hmmm,” Phil chuckled where his lips had begun working on Clint’s neck. “Not right now, thank you, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

It was Clint’s turn to chuckle, weakly. 

“Well you’re not getting in my ass after I spent half of yesterday straddling a tree.” He waited a moment, growing slightly tense despite the lips tickling his collarbone, before Phil’s head popped back up.

His smile could only be called devious but his answer, when it came, was light.

“There’s always later, why don’t we keep it simple this time?” Phil asked, and wrapped one hot calloused hand around both of them and jerked.

“Yagh!” Clint replied, nearly bucking them both off the bed. They ended up with Phil draped over Clint, arms splayed, and their asses both edging over the side.

“Hold on,” Phil panted, wriggling against him to try and tilt his center of gravity northward.

Instead the bedspread started slipping, and after a moment of entangled flailing, they slid slowly over the side. Phil’s eyes had gone comically wide as they went, and he was laughing before they’d even hit the floor, banging knees and foreheads as Clint came down on top of him.

It was the sexiest fucking thing Clint had ever seen, and he was helpless against the fondness that tried to burst his chest. He laughed and kissed Phil as the blanket slumped down on top of them both.

They finished that way, a writhing mass of limbs and laughter and mutual need all tangled up in horrible squeaky polyester velour. Chuckles bubbled up from Clint even as he drove hard between Phil’s thighs. Phil made endearing little snickering sounds in between desperate kisses as he held Clint’s head down against him and thrust upwards into Clint’s hand. Their climaxes were equal parts ridiculous and mind-blowing (or at least Clint’s certainly was, and from the poleaxed look on Phil’s face he was betting it was mutual.)

“Think we’re gonna be late to the game,” Clint mumbled into Phil’s shoulder when he could finally find his voice again. Even as he said it, a low rumble and crack sent both of them sitting upright.

In the silence that followed they stared out the window to find that the day had gone dark as twilight. A raindrop splatted, then another.

“Game’s gonna be late to us,” Phil said.

“That doesn’t even make any sense, Phil,” Clint complained, but he was grinning, oh he fucking knew he was grinning. He couldn’t help it, seeing Phil all mussed, tension drained from his shoulders, swollen-lipped and smiling openly. He was silver and sleek in the light of the storm, and he made Clint’s lungs ache.

“You need another shower, Clint,” Phil said after a long silence where they just beamed goofily at each other. He was extricating himself from the tangled pile of blanket and human, but stopped long enough to draw a finger down the bridge of Clint’s nose. The casual intimacy of the gesture was almost too much.

“You just like me naked,” Clint said. He dragged the blanket around him and cuddled under it, watching Phil as he moved around the room.

“I like you most ways, Clint. I’ll order pizza while you shower.”

“Hm. Only if it’s thin crust. You know what I like.”

“Does the traditional cuisine of my people mean nothing to you? Or have you turned New Yorker enough to be frightened of deep dish?”

“Boss,” Clint said, and infused it with as much warmth as he possibly could, “do I look like some east coast jackass to you? Deep dish holds no fear for me, but it’s not what I crave. Cracker crust, sauce as sweet as a baby’s ass, and so many toppings it’s not structurally sound. And don’t even think I don’t see the lust in your eyes every time we’re in the midwest and you see a tavern-cut pie.”

“You always did have a good eye, Hawkeye.” Phil held a hand out to him and heaved him upwards. “Tell you what; I’ll shower with you, we’ll get pizza after.”

“And beer?”

“And beer.”

____

They ended up naked on the couch, flopped over one another, two beers held in between Clint’s powerful thighs, feeding each other greasy squares of pizza and watching the Dodgers game on cable (since Phil flat-out refused to watch the local broadcast of the White Sox at Seattle).

Midway through the seventh-inning stretch, Phil shifted under Clint, lifted Clint’s shoulder off his lap, and slipped away to the bathroom. Clint watched Phil go, striding with his usual swoon-worthy ease, then fell back into the divot of warmth his butt had left behind on the couch cushion.

“Fuck,” Clint muttered as he settled into the oddly comforting warmth. Cuddling into the residual heat left by someone’s ass was not supposed to feel hot or calming or… _right._

He removed the beers, rolled over, and hid his face under one arm. 

“You all right, Barton?” Phil’s voice filtered down to him.

“Fine,” Clint slurred. _Barton_ , huh? Well, all right then. As indications went, it was probably fairly clear.

“I just got off the phone with HQ,” Phil continued, shoving at his shoulders. Clint rolled reluctantly, and Phil slipped back into his seat. One arm draped companionably over Clint’s shoulder, pressing lightly until it was just natural for Clint to pillow his head back down against Phil’s warm thigh. 

So… maybe not such a clear indication? Well, only one way to find out… (two ways, actually-- Clint was gonna try the first door, um, first.)

“What’s up?”

“Nothing urgent; I’m afraid our departure time has been delayed. We’re not due to leave until tomorrow night now.”

“Oh.” Ah. “Huh. So what do we do ‘till then?”

“Well, I got our tickets swapped for tomorrow’s game. Bleachers this time, unless you have objections.” Phil’s hand had left Clint’s shoulder to start tracing down his spine, and he arched into the stroke.

“Wait, your friend can’t make tomorrow, either?”

Phil’s hand stopped, just north of his ass. His pause was short, but long enough for realization to set in. Clint resisted the urge to bang his forehead into the nearest hard surface, figuring he was gonna want to use it later and Phil might object to bruising.

“Friend was never planning to make it,” Clint said, muffling it in Phil’s thigh, “and you were trying to sneak me into a date except I shot you down without realizing it.”

“You get there eventually, Hawkeye.” 

It was gonna be far better in the long run if he was actually looking Phil in the eye, Clint figured, even if he would have preferred continued avoidance. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked up. Phil was gazing down at him with a blank face-- not the Agent Coulson professional bland, luckily. Just a nice restful neutral to give Clint space.

“Yeah nothing gets past me for long. What was the idea? Dress all sexy, show me how filthy you could be eating a hot dog, get me drunk on cheap beer then bring me back here and seduce me with pizza?” 

“Basically, yes,” Phil said. “That was my plan, give or take the pizza.”

“Good plan.”

“Lacking in a few critical details, as it turned out. I’d neglected to factor in just how tired you were last night, and apparently how much you’d be affected by me dressing ‘sexy’.” He raised an eyebrow, and Clint raised one right the fuck back.

“Oh yeah? How about how much _you_ were affected by a nice pair of boots and a thin t-shirt, Coulson?”

“Yes, well,” Phil said as the blush spread slowly down his neck and he turned his head away. “You have this tendency to scrap my plans and go with your own.”

“You need to tell me these things beforehand, sir, I’ll try to be better. F’r instance,” Clint levered himself onto his knees, planted his hands on Phil’s thighs, and swung across to straddle him. “I take it you plan to try your plan again tomorrow.”

“We won’t have time for the seduction by pizza part before we head back to New York, I’m afraid,” Phil told him, his arms coming around Clint’s hips and settling in.

“Okay, so, we postpone that part until Friday? Your place? Think you can handle a New York slice so soon after coming home?” Phil’s hands had gone slack around him and he looked practically exasperated. Oh, shit. “Unless… this was just gonna be a lost weekend thing? It can be a lost weekend thing-- we can do that-- are you laughing at me?” 

Phil was so very much laughing at Clint; he’d dropped his forehead on Clint’s shoulder and was making undignified little sniggering sounds against his pecs.

“No, it was never meant to be a lost weekend thing-- or if there was any remote possibility, that probably disappeared about five minutes into the pizza. I just can’t believe you, Clint. I thought I was going to have to ease you into the idea. You are so _shit_ with plans.”

“Well Jesus Fuck, Phil, you gotta tell me what they are!” Clint relaxed back onto Phil’s lap. “And can you please stop with the plans for a bit? It makes me feel all weird and prickly. I mean--glad you want to keep doing this and all, because holy fuck yeah, and I’m good with Friday, I mean, obviously, I’m good with Friday I asked about it, I just--that’s about the most plan you’re gonna get out of me, and I don’t want--”

“No more plans,” Phil interrupted him, and leaned in to kiss him, very soundly. “That was the extent of them.”

“Yeah, well, got any plans for _now_?”

“If I do, will you actually stick to them?”

“Dunno, you gonna tell me what they are?” 

Phil pulled back to give Clint a long, dry look.

“Ah. Point. Well, I planned to suggest that you slide down to the carpet, spread out on your knees, and get your mouth around my dick. Think you can handle that for a start?”

“Yeah,” Clint’s voice was like sandpaper in his throat, “yeah, I think I can. Why don’t you fill me in on the rest while I get started.” 

Phil’s voice above him, that mild, eternally-amused light voice, described his plans for the evening in increasingly filthy detail, while below him Clint set them in motion with the same efficiency and snark he brought to ops. The television flickered benignly over them both as, onscreen, Takashi Saito got the save for the Dodgers with three straight strikeouts.

Lights out.

____

(The Cubs lost on Monday; not that Phil noticed especially. He was too busy complaining about the renovations to the bleacher section, the price of beer, and the impossibility of keeping score when Clint was constantly jostling him in order to point out random shit in the stands. Clint, for his part, decided that Phil eating a hot dog should damn well be illegal, and was so distracted he forgot to heckle the umps. It was a good day all around.)

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> I can always be found on tumblr, [here](http://kat-har.tumblr.com/), and I would hug and squeeze and obsessively re-read your comments, if you were to leave them below.
> 
> The game they made:  
> [ August 19, 2007 Cubs vs Cardinals](http://www.baseball-reference.com/boxes/CHN/CHN200708200.shtml)


End file.
